Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

A bunch of Fontanas also happen to be present, and the Glory Hole Gang. Actually, Miss Van von Rhine, being the hostess from whom all good things edible and drinkable flow at this affair, and my roomie are the only females present, the Midnight family femmes excepted.

Apparently, Miss Van von Rhine’s hot blonde foreign friend, Revienne, had a headache after all the Chunnel of Crime ride excitement and is dining quietly in her room. Fine. Leaves more for me and mine.

And what a spread the Glory Hole Gang helped lay out! The overgrown members of our party are nibbling from a long table with some foodstuffs the Cat Pack is being polite about and leaving for demolishment later.

Along a classy plastic runner on the vintage carpet are exquisite Asian dishes tricked out with exquisite tidbits of world cuisine, including anchovies à la orange, shrimp and liver with sautéed giblets, and catfish in a sauce of liver and milk.

Maybe not your menu, but right up my alley.

“The Jersey Joe Jackson Ghost Suite is filled up to the gills,” Miss Temple notes.

I do like her figure … and figures of speech. “Gills.” Aaah. I foresee a leisurely midnight dip at the koi pond.

So does Chef Song, who is presiding over the buffet table and knifes me a sharp warning look. I am reminded that the kitchen is among the most likely places for an “accident” in the house, and that a kitchen tool was the murder weapon in this case.

“Stifle yourself,” Midnight Louise hisses in my ear. “This is the family ‘coming out’ party at the Crystal Phoenix. There shall be no crude fishing expeditions.”

“Look at that cat’s poor eyelid, Nicky,” Miss Van von Rhine croons, bending low to examine Ma Barker’s puss.

I squint my eyes shut. Miss Van von Rhine will get four in the first three epidermal levels from Ma for that liberty.

“I know a great eye surgeon for that,” Miss Van von Rhine goes on, speaking directly to Ma, “if you would consent to drop by my office with Midnight Louise and let me treat you to Gangsters’ new spa for a facial and even maybe a tummy tuck. We will have a plastic surgeon on hand for Botox and laser eye lifts.”

Eek! A tummy tuck is my mark of honor for surviving a premature surgical attempt on my, er, fur balls.

I am amazed to see Ma Barker erupt in a purr and rub on our hostess’s ankles.

Female! Thy name is vanity! What a traitor.

Whilst I am stewing about the turn of events—I seem not to be the object of every eye—Miss Midnight Louise slinks up to me again.

“Good job, mein papa. Who knows what that South American terrorist would have done to our poor human associates had we not been there to staple his treacherous suit lapels to his epidermis through his trachea.”

Females can be so visceral.

I do see how Ma Barker, after her harsh street life, might be ready for the Queen for a Day treatment. As for my esteemed pater, Three O’Clock has drifted to sleep with his whiskers in the catfish pâté. Pater is in the pâté. What a family! I could die.

“Louie,” says my Miss Temple, “it has been a busy day, and I think you and I should head home to the Circle Ritz.”

Sweeter words were never spoken. I cannot wait to hit the solo sack with her and have my … tummy tuck scratched. I am the exclusive sort.

Meanwhile, there are some tiresome matters, always as clear as a crystal phoenix to me, that the humans always have to settle.

“What made you suspect Santiago, Nicky?” my Miss Temple asks.

“Actually, my brilliant wife. Van, do you want to explain?” He turns to her with a bemused smile.

She shrugs charmingly. “It was nothing. Merely my broad knowledge of international finance.”

Macho Mario barks out a laugh at the word “broad,” which evokes cocked shivs in the Midnight family females, not that anyone biped would notice.

“I always say, Nicky,” he predictably says, “if you do not have it, marry it.”

Mr. Nicky Fontana is a modern dude and knows to give credit where credit is due. “And how did your superior knowledge save the whole project and remove the blot of a murder rap from all my nearest and dearest? Dearest.”

“You … flattering phony Santiago, you,” Van answers with a smile. “Temple came to my office and asked me to explain bearer bonds, after we found that one … ‘rat dropping’ in the tunnel.

“I explained that they had been a convenient way to do international transactions and were available for up to ten thousand dollars apiece. The investment was poor because they often did not earn interest, and their usage is being phased out as we speak.”

Nicky frowns. “We knew any valuables found in a Jersey Joe Jackson stash would be … out of date.”

“Yes. Of course, dear.”

Uh-oh. That is the prelude to a forthcoming contradiction.